


First Contact

by friendlytroll



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Alien Character(s), Alien Romance, Alien/Human Romance, Established Relationship, First Meetings, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, experimental pov nonsense, i swear it's not as intense as this sounds it's mostly just gay, very mild blood/injury, vortigaunt nonsense abounds be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25624795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlytroll/pseuds/friendlytroll
Summary: Vortigaunts do not experience time the way humans do. Time is not a flat line where the past is behind them. It is with them always. More then memory. Regrettably less then time travel. Because if Uriah could change these moments of the past, then he would have known what to say when the human he did not yet know as Dr. Arne Magnusson finds him.But he revisits it often all the same, with the appreciation of the many years between them.It is the day of Black Mesa; when the end of the hopeless future will come. It hasn't happened yet; and the Vortigaunt who is not yet named Uriah remembers how it felt to first look at the sky.(Or: In which the author gets kind of Really Into trying to write an alien perspective with a wholly different outlook on time, and also what that would mean when you are in love with someone, and also no force on earth can tell me these two aren't A Thing.)
Relationships: Arne Magnusson/Uriah
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	First Contact

Uriah, who had not then yet been named Uriah, had not known, then, what the first words the Magnusson had said to him were. It was the one particular wrinkle of the moment, which otherwise was like a perfect piece of sea glass within Uriah's life; rolled to and fro so many times it  _ shone _ . 

He wishes, now, that he had been able to trade words with him. But there was a future increasingly more full of chances to speak more; and in many ways, he cherished the moment just as it was. The way he cherished, now, the Magnusson just as he is and had been, and would be, all those things being, in many ways, remarkably stable for a human. He was always a particular, direct, and curt man. He was always passionate, and intelligent, and uncompromising of himself above all others. 

And he was, and would always be, the human who had stopped, in the very middle of world ending, and the destruction of all his life's work, when he had found the vortigaunt who would one day be gifted the name  _ Uriah- _

( _ He had asked what it meant; Magnusson had frowned in the way that meant he was trying, really trying, to actually think of how to explain. He was kind, that way.  _

_ “Its a word in the language my mother taught me. When I was very little. It’s a very old language. It means… light. Fire. If you don’t like it, then-”  _

_ And Uriah, who was then Uriah, had told him no. And he had held the word, and the memory of how many days it had taken Magnusson to choose it after he had asked him for a human name to use, close inside his thoughts. It was important. He had picked it from the words of his mother.) _

-Lay dying. 

The moments of black mesa were, for the most part, painfully stark and yet confused all at once. All before the clean and beautiful intersection of the death of the Nihilanth was tainted that way. Their enslavement buzzed and hampered, sent ones thoughts wordless and agonized. All was done only to keep from further agony; all was shut away inside their minds, their souls locked in their chest, all to try to protect what precious little remained of themselves. 

(This was, of course, no excuse for the tethers they had cut. The vortessence itself was marked, surely, by the grief of the day when they had learned  _ there was no return for humans _ , and what they had cut would never again return. It was a weight; but they would carry it with respect, until the vortal end.)

Uriah was one of the very few who found his mind freed of the Nihilanth before the Free Man finished the spiraling paths; though the nihilanths horrid fury was still there, lurking in the Vortessence, waiting, waiting, always waiting. He had been one of several who had been put to sleep with cold; and they had woken up to find someone had removed their collars and cuffs. 

Only Uriah could feel the cold had taken something from him that could not be regained. Not without the other vortigaunts sapping their limited vortessence; not without slowing them. They had to go; to try to weather this storm. And he had not minded. 

He was dying free. His mind, for just a blessed little while, was his own. And there was much to see; they had been loaded into what he would know eventually had been a transport truck, on the surface of the sprawling underground nest of Black Mesa. With a little effort, he had managed to get himself close enough to the doors to see, for the very first time, just how brilliantly  _ blue  _ earth's sky was. 

This is where he likes to begin the moment. He does not savor the ice in his bones. But there is poetry; something dazzling, that he aches to grip tighter in his hands here. 

He had been staring upwards; admiring the dizzying, stark blue. It looked as though it would burn you, if only you could reach out to touch it. So different from Xen; so different from the forever-lost sky of home. Strange, and pale. What slowed and confused thoughts he’d had then were mostly of carrying this color back with him to the vortessence. Something to escape to, when the burden of the lash finds him again. 

His pulse was slowing, and the sky was blue.

And then, suddenly, something had interrupted the vast, dry expanse. A human shape. 

He flinched, in the moment, thinking death had come for him sooner than he thought. He had hoped for a little more time. But it sings to him now, when he revisits it. He would smile, if that could have been what happened. For the joy of finding the sky, and the Magnusson all at one time. 

“My god. You’re still alive...” the Magnusson’s words meant nothing to Uriah then. But he had focused on this human, surprised to realize at this distance they  _ did  _ have eyes. Just.. small. Too few. His attention was stolen from the sky, completely distracted by the sight. By the pale and pattern strangeness. The Magnusson had leaned down very close to him then, and it had been a shock to realize they were  _ white _ , highlighted by on the most.  _ Delicate _ little rings of color, the same as the sky, circling an abyss-black dot. A hole in their eyes? Did it hurt? No, foolishness. The shape almost looked flat; perhaps something like a lens? But different. 

He had been a naturalist once. Before all was taken. He would be a scientist again. He was one again, then, in the time when all futures were so consumed by the Nihilanth he had never thought he would have his own mind to himself again.

“ _ Fascinating.” _ Uriah had mumbled purely to himself, purely for the joy of the observation. At the sound Magnusson had paused, regarding him intently. 

The Magnussons hair was not yet streaked with white then; it was a little longer, the soft shape of it pushed to one side, his face yet mostly unlined. His hair fluffy; he wishes sometimes he could see that again, with so much more silver now. He is harried; streaked in grime, im disarray. In the years since, he would come to know he wore the particular human clothing he does the same way the other humans wore  _ armor _ . It forms the shape of him. It is Important, because it stands for something. (It’s important to him that Uriah have something that means the same thing, and that people do not call Uriah ‘Vortigaunt’, and Uriah finds pride in the woven white cloth, with it’s little card, with his name.)

The first time he is seeing it, he notes only with surprise that it is not part of the body. The tears have revealed woven fibers; a cloth. The Human reaches down towards him, and he thinks drowsily it would be a novel thing, to die under pale eyes. 

The hand that touched his neck was gentle. Barely more than a brush of skin, without so much as the bite of talons. He had tried to turn and look, only to be interrupted by a gentle ‘Ah-ah-ah’, a soft sound that captivated his attention. It was simple this time. Not such a long, uninterrupted, complicated little sing-song. 

“ _ Ah, ah, ah _ ?” he had imitated back, his voice weak. It is worth it, even then, just to watch as the humans eyes  _ widen _ , revealing only ever more white. Only in the reliving does he see the wonder cross Magnussons face. And then the horror. He has seen it so many times, since. The Magnussons heart breaks for him so many times, at so many little things. At every new horror shared. But every time, the flash of anger. The determination. 

“...Well. That tears it then.” Magnusson said, pulling his hand away to look around, terse. Moving is hard; it takes effort to lift his hand up, reaching for the human in idle curiosity. He does not know the words, but he can. Parse, the way he is moving. Looking for threats. It is not safe. 

“ _ Stay _ .” he pleads to the human whose name he thinks then he will never know, and the shame he feels to even think to ask he risk himself cannot outweigh how much he wishes this interaction to continue. To have a friendly(?) presence. To have such a distraction. Is it safe to ask, if he will not be understood? 

“Easy, easy now.” The Magnusson had said, his tone low in a way he could not even begin to parse. It was just… noise. No vortessence… no. There was something there, but it was like. Running water. Wind. Perhaps he had not learned it yet. He will learn there are no words to know. It is all in the sound; the flowing stream of words alone. But there is something to the rush and crackle. Even if humans do not know it. 

Even if the Magnusson does not know how much standing next to him, sometimes, feels like when they tested their rocket-engines. Something you feel through your feet, and the heat on your skin. Such tremendous power, born of such determined precision. A wordless cry of defiance in a chaotic world. 

But he did, and does, understand the hand that finds his. He is shocked, then, at the strength in the complex structure, even as it is so. There are no talons. It is warm. So, so warm. It beats against his skin in an odd little even pattern. 

“Easy there. I’m not going to hurt you.” The Magnusson had said. The sound this time was low. Soft. He has leaned down a little more, and the grip on Uriah’s hand is firm. It shifts. So many little fingers. They must provide the leverage for such strength. He cannot hope to match it as he was. But he did his best to close his own hand against his, carefully. Frightened he would injure the warmth against his skin. 

“See there- look at that. You’ve got life in you yet.” the Magnusson takes the motion and returns it three, four fold, his grip tightening so much it seems to press the warmth of the blue sky into Uriahs bones. 

It is a moment he could live for.

It is the moment he  _ will  _ live for. But this first time is the hardest. The nihilanths song was one of futility. Of try-no-more. The favorite song of the tyrant never changes, and it is always  _ there is no hope _ . Only it. Only it’s whims. Only it’s fear and fury. 

This human is not scared of him. They must have known he could cause so much damage. Does he know, the talons are where vortessence gathers? 

He must have. The Magnussons observational skills are striking. He has asked before. Several times. _Was the Magnusson not scared? How did you know I would not harm you?_ _Was it not hopeless_? Sometimes the response was angry; but not with Uriah. With this imperfect world. The defiant “What else could I have done?” barked with force. Sometimes with sorrow, packed away like something dangerous. A soft “For gods sake, anyone with eyes could see… you don’t leave a person alone like that.” 

He likes the defiance best. Which is good, because it always comes. Always, whatever else he says, The Magnusson will turn, and lift his head up to look him in the eyes, and it must be on purpose, then. A ‘point’. Something he does because he wishes Uriah to hear it, and know it. 

“I don’t regret it, you know.”

“And I’m proud I did.”

“Thank goodness.”

“If I have done anything right in this world, Uriah…”

He has not heard these words, yet. (And he hopes that Magnusson will forgive him, if he ever realizes Uriah knows fully well the answers, for the selfish desire to collect them from him)

But he held tightly to that offered hand, and lets the Magnusson pull him slowly into a sitting position. To stand proves impossible; the cold is still there. His bones will never quite stop aching when it is very cold. The snow will one day blanket White Forest, and he was scolded gently, and made to sit, and piled with warming things. He will think of how snow looks like humans gaze. 

Then, he tried his best to do as instructed without language, and managed to let the Magnusson pull Uriah onto his back. It was… undignified. But the Magnusson was shockingly physically strong. 

(Humans, all Vortigaunts learn quickly, are capable of shocking feats of endurance. Under duress it can be frightening to witness. The day Uriah was able to glean a true understanding of the chemical  _ adrenaline  _ he understands a little more. Like many things about humans it faintly concerns him, even as he admires the strange wonder of it. It seems more and more, with every passing day, he is learning the most dangerous place to put humanity may be when it is  _ cornered _ .)

Tragically, the moment blurred with exhaustion, with the frantic nature of Black Mesa, while he was carried. He knows only that he was half carried, half dragged with care out of the open. The Blue of the sky is gone, but the blue of the jacket he rests against replaces it. He becomes distracted by the patterns of his voice. He will find it charming, eventually, to recognize the grouchy grumbly nature of his complaints. The faint awe when he discussed the portals to, a then unresponsive subject. The way that when Uriah had caught onto a words sound and repeated it, he had repeated it back patiently. 

He will realize how little Magnusson talks to himself, when left alone. That the speech had been for his benefit. The humans do not think of Magnusson as kind, because the Magnussons eyes are fixed too high to meet their eyes. They do not know. And sometimes, privately, Uriah likes that it feels. Special. He likes that he has a place. 

He doesn’t like, when he is settled down somewhere inside, that he can tell the human is wounded. He is being settled against a wall with some care, in a small room that is away from much of the noise, which he has been hearing for so long he has ceased to register it until it is gone. Something about how Magnusson was moving looks wrong. His eyes close slightly as he moves one shoulder. Red- red is blooming in the fabric over the arm?

_ Blood _ , he will learn. That the blazing color of human blood is so similar to a vortigaunts eye is a curiosity to some. Something resonant to others. Sacred to a few. To Uriah, then, as pain returns to where cold has receded, it is just what makes him reach out, talons settling on the cloth. 

“Eh? What are you… oh. Pf. It’s fine. I-  _ I  _ will survive. Worry about yourself, damn it.” the Magnusson grumbles, shifting his head side to side, firm, and short. Uriah mimics it back slightly, and does not retract his hand. He is not thinking straight, he thinks now. But perhaps he was simply. Overwhelmed. 

(He is still often overwhelmed, around the Magnusson. Vexing.)

“ _ You are saving me. You have saved me. Even if I die now. I will live in the memory of your kindness. Let me live to have been who helps you now.”  _ he tries to tell him. 

(He envies this boldness, now.)

His control of the Vortal energies was weak; he had never been especially gifted in the arts. It sings for him still, though, and he bids for it to sing a little louder. Let there be just a little life ahead. Let the Nihilanth not have stolen this art from them, the way of reaching out, under the skin, to take the broken Vortessence of the Other and mend. 

The glow under his hand is faint; but he sees it reflected in the Magnussons eyes when they widen. It is not the cleanest healing any Vortigaunt has ever performed. He is sure that it still troubles Magnusson, now. In the same way that Uriah's bones ache when White Forest becomes chilled by snow. He often presses the man to allow Uriah to take over some of his more physical tasks for him. Magnusson often demands he sit, closer to the heater, with a blanket. Such was compromise. 

But then, he simply watched the way the pain eases out of the humans posture, and is glad beyond measure.

“I. I do not understand you. Nor… you me, I suppose. But. Thank you.” Magnusson’s mouth had shifted positions then;  _ smiles  _ will be a lovely thing to learn. The Magnussons are rare. Rarer still does he ever show his teeth in such expressions. But the ways they shift the shape of his eyes has a certain charm to it. 

The Magnusson lifts his hand away, and makes a slight sound (disapproval, concern. a tisk), pulling up the hem of his jacket to carefully wipe smudges of bright red off of it. 

“Aye.” Uriah tries, voice rumbling as he tests the sound. The human uses it frequently, and it is simple. 

“mmhm. I. Or…” Magnusson pauses in cleaning Uriah's hand, gesturing up to his face, next to his eye. 

“Eye.” Magnusson says firmly, lowering his hand to take Uriah's again, swiping his cloth neatly over the crease of the joints of his fingers. 

“Eye.” Urian repeats, lifting the claw that is not being held (because he does not want to pull away from the caring touch) to gesture to his own eyes. 

And Magnusson smiled again. 

And this is the first word Magnusson has said to him that he understands.

It will tickle him, when he realizes  _ I  _ and  _ eye  _ are different words. He retains a fondness for the sound. 

(He likes that it is tucked away inside his name. Especially when-)

“Uriah? Ur- **_i_ ** -ah?” The Magnusson never raises his voice to Uriah; he allows himself smugness about this. But he does draw out the sound of his name, when he wishes to be stern, or get his attention. It is more than enough to make Uriah lift his head up, coming back to the moment, where he was mostly re-checking some important calculations. 

“My apologies. I was… lost in the past.” Uriah says, inclining his head slightly in apology. As he registers the moment unfolding he recognizes that Magnusson is carrying two mugs; one a wide, oversized model that accommodates a Vortigaunt snout. 

He realizes only then that his hands hurt in the chill of white forest, and though he cannot smile the way a human does, his head inclines happily as he reaches out, and Magnusson smiles back at him. 

“I think it’s about time for a break, if you’re already being all  _ nostalgic _ .” Magnusson drawls, handing the mug off, sighing and rolling his shoulders back. 

“A moment of great joy is worth revisiting.” he offers, warming his hands on the mug carefully. 

“Y-eeess, well. No reason to neglect yourself in the present.” Uriah grumbles, glancing around the empty lab. He leans down, and for a moment Uriah thinks he may be checking his math. Instead, the Magnusson turns his head, and presses his lips to the side of Uriah’s face, just to the side of his ear, a lingering motion. 

It is as warm as a blue sky. 

“...Oh for gods sake, you’re cold as the grave. Take a BREAK, Uriah.”

“Perhaps. If the Arne in his wisdom could see fit to join me…”

“Hmph. Flirt…”


End file.
